


Unexpected

by NovaNara



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Post Reichenbach, Reunion Fic, restaurant teaser, turning tables
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-04
Updated: 2013-11-08
Packaged: 2017-12-25 15:41:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/954854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NovaNara/pseuds/NovaNara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Starting the obligatory Return fic before BBC makes it entirely AU. Well, starting the Friendship version of it. The Johnlock version will be coming too...hopefully before becoming AU. T because of Feels necessarily coming.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: nothing mine, everything is ACD's and/or BBC's. I took a bit of inspiration from the restaurant teaser I did NOT watch, but I read about it from other people's fanfiction. So, probably a lot of mess up. Forgive me. Oh, and I have two competing Return scenarios in mind. I'll write both, please enjoy this for a start.

Sherlock ran mental simulations of his Return (it's not egotism, the capital is really needed) for months. He created countless scenarios of John's reactions, ranging from violence (most likely) to shock to disbelief to coldness (please, not this) and was ready to counter each and every one of them appropriately. But when he did come back, John's reaction astounded him. John always, always managed to surprise Sherlock (he should have remembered that bit). It's part of why they were so good together. A boring companion would have been unbearable.

If you managed to pilfer Mycroft's CCTV records, this is what you'd see.

He's crashing John's date (old habits die hard, especially when all you want is to _go back_ – to former times). Well, not quite ruining the date since the Girl of the Week (ok, more than a week, according to Mycroft) is fashionably late herself. He cannot wait another second though, so he approaches his friend quietly and calls, "John." He hopes his reappearance in such a public place will postpone the violence that he suspects may occur.

"Sherlock," the doctor acknowledges. He doesn't sound angry, or flabbergasted. Instead he sounds (Sherlock is not 100% sure as this is an emotional thing) almost – annoyed. A normal reaction to this specific custom of the detective, if today was normal, which it's not. Perhaps John believes Sherlock to be a hallucination.

"Sit down," John prompts, and Sherlock does, stealing the chair meant for the absent girlfriend. He's ready to prove he's real but John speaks again, "I hope you haven't been working on just _one_ case all this time, Sherlock…because if you have, you are very much off your game." Obviously aware of Sherlock's old trick. And unimpressed. Very much so.

The lack of praise (yes, he expected praise for cheating death; how pitiful) actually hurts, even though it shouldn't since Sherlock is more than used to being mocked but…this is _John_.

So, instead of ignoring the barb, or replying with something more scathing (and usually unrelated) he justifies himself, "Moriarty's web spanned all over the world, John. And I had to destroy every last thread."

"And?" his friend says, looking at him expectantly. Clearly he still thinks Sherlock was too damn slow.

"I was alone," he whispers. He didn't mean to say it. In all his simulations, he never told John more than a few sentences about his time away. He certainly didn't draw attention to his loneliness. Why had that become a bad thing after John anyway? It used to be almost comforting.

"You didn't _have_ to be," John hisses back. He's finally working himself up to angry. Good. Sherlock is prepared to deal with anger. A shadow behind him stops his reply, though.

"Hello, Mary," John welcomes her with a wide smile, "told you Sherlock would crash a date sooner or later."

The feminine gasp proves she hadn't believed him. _Idiot_. And Sherlock can't deduce her without moving to look at her, but he doesn't want to move a muscle lest he be chased away. He isn't back in John's good graces yet.

"Figures it would be today; I was long due for a dose of Murphy's Law," the doctor remarks, shaking his head. Years ago, this would have meant nothing to Sherlock but John had explained this law to him. Like everything John taught him, he never got around to deleting it. Sherlock is mildly nauseous that his return is classified as 'things going _wrong_.'

"You couldn't wait a bit, could you? I might have been engaged. God, if you were slow enough, maybe even married!" John continues, eliciting twin, " _What?_ " from both Sherlock and Mary.

"Well, it's useless now. I really, really love you, Mary, and if you'd believed me and consequently be ready to face him, I wouldn't even have to suggest this. But my life is about to get crazier than ever – it always is, when he's around – and therefore this is so not the time to plan a wedding. Just the opposite; perhaps it would be best to put things on hold for a little bit? Until it all gets sorted at least?" he suggests, weary. It's so cliché he'd roll eyes at himself. But what else is he supposed to do?

Sherlock's relief is so deep he's almost dizzy; he still is higher priority than any girl for John, even when he's not entirely forgiven.

Mary shrieks another "What?" and then finally enters the sleuth's visual field…to slap John. Hard.

"How shameless you are," the detective's baritone drawls "not to mention self-deluded. Ah, but that runs in the family, doesn't it? Whatever you think you've inferred from the blog, marrying John is not the answer to dealing with your brother's schizophrenia. You might want to lure a psychiatric professional next." John looks stricken (but Sherlock talked because John needed to know; doesn't he realize?) and Mary runs away crying, like she should. The intermezzo has finally ended.

A long sigh, then the doctor whispers, "At least now I know what the bloody family emergencies were."

"You had no idea and you wanted to get engaged?!" Sherlock replies.

"If I'd married her at least her relations wouldn't be likely to kidnap me," he quips.

"I wouldn't be so sure, John; these kind of people are awfully unstable."

"I suppose so," John agrees, with a sudden chuckle. "You still have a lot of explaining to do, Mister and this is not the right place." He tugs Sherlock by the wrist to lead him. Hopefully home. But honestly, anywhere would be fine.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I seem incline to forget giving due credit, but this too is made readable by the wonderful Ennui Enigma. Just assume that anything mine since the start of the year went through her careful betaing, unless I state otherwise. And of course, nothing you recognize is mine (disclaiming is so boring!).

 

Sherlock is allowed back home while Mrs. Hudson is with her sister. He can’t decide if she believed John or not. He melts into his armchair. Not literally, of course, but he’s suddenly feeling so boneless that John might need to scrape him off the cushions with a spatula if he wants him to move.

 

 

 

“Now, about these explanations…” John starts, sitting in his own armchair. There is no tea. They aren’t quite at that stage of back yet.

 

 

 

“I’ll answer your questions if you answer mine,” the detective interrupts.

 

 

 

John’s eyebrow shoots up in surprise, but then he relaxes back into the chair. “Fair enough. Why?” His voice is quiet but he looks sharply at his personal not-Lazarus.

 

 

 

“I had to, John. Moriarty had snipers aiming at you, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. Nothing else but the ending he had written for me would stop him.” (He's painfully aware he should have been able to find another way). Whatever John decides, the sleuth will never entirely forgive himself for that particular failure.

 

 

 

John swallows convulsively as if the information has lodged in his throat, but offers no other outward sign of his feelings. “Your turn,” he prompts with merely a shrug.

 

 

 

“Who told you?” He’s not disappointed in John’s initial reaction...or his lack of a substantial one. But whoever informed his friend of his continued survival should really have notified Sherlock of the disclosure. The detective would have been adequately prepared for their reunion, then. Sherlock needs to know who is to blame, if (hopefully not when) he upsets John somehow because he is unready to face him.

 

 

 

“Nobody told me. They all fervently denied it, in fact. At least outrightly. I figured it out myself,” John replies with a ray of pride. Given the nature of his deduction, he has every right to be proud, too. “As I said before, you didn’t have to work alone. Why did you choose to do so? And don’t say you had no other way. If I can imagine one arrangement where we work together, you could certainly calculate at least five in 30 seconds...or less.” John’s rigid now, not out of rage, but as if to hide his insecurity. Sherlock couldn't ever dream of being rid of his loyal blogger. How can John not realize that?

 

 

 

“It was the first time I wasn’t entirely confident about the result,” the detective confesses through gritted teeth, “it could very well end in Moriarty’s posthumous victory, and the very point of the game was that you’re too precious to lose, John.”

 

 

 

He waits for another mocking, because that avowal is awfully…sentimental, to say the least, but John stays silent, staring keenly at him, trying to determine the truth of the statement. Sherlock has been known to be extremely manipulative, after all. But John knows how he is when he’s truly shaken, doesn’t he? He must know. He has seen Sherlock at his lowest. John would be the only one to see him like that, if the detective had any choice in the matter.

 

 

 

“I wasn’t going to risk you, so yes, I had to do this alone. Mycroft offered his own people for backup, but I dropped off his radar every time he became too insistent. I would not associate with some minion I couldn’t trust to keep silent if caught,” the sleuth continues.

 

 

 

He’s so very careful about his wording, but still John notices that ‘if’ covers for ‘when’. Sherlock has been caught, and without backup. His habit to spontaneously disappear from Mycroft’s surveillance must have meant he had to save himself. How long did that take? However much his suicide hurt him, John still doesn’t wish Sherlock harm (certainly not from Moriarty’s goons).

 

 

 

John’s caring is made obvious to the detective by his unconscious, instinctive gesture of concern, as if his friend has the urge to bandage a hidden wound. Of course, this is stupid because if he really were hurt, John would have noticed within seconds of his return. He doesn’t doubt the good doctor’s powers of medical observation. But Sherlock doesn’t want John’s pity. He deserved everything he got, after all. He deserved it twice. Once, for being stupid enough to get caught. And again, for hurting John. He presses on, “How did you deduce it, then?”

 

 

 

“Your ‘note’ was all wrong,” John declares. “It took me awhile to figure it out, granted. I knew from the start it was the biggest load of bull I had ever heard, but I did not realize how significant that was initially. It took me a few months of grief and guilt and your continuous slander from the press… and being just about ready to follow you, to see the truth.”

 

 

 

Now it’s Sherlock who can’t quite control his reaction. He’d never willingly be caught emitting the horrified gasp that unconsciously leaves his lips. He’d been curious and interested at John’s first sentence (what did he do wrong?) but the revelation of John’s near suicide leaves him haunted. Every nightmare that has tormented him since the pool almost came true and it would have been all his fault. The sheer terror and despair of such a prospect are too much to be kept contained, out of his mien, and it shows. John thankfully does not remark on this.

 

 

 

“Death is the best truth serum, Sherlock,” his friend states instead. “The urge to be completely honest is irresistible when one knows they’ll never have another chance to express the truth or need to worry about the consequences of their revelation. You lied. Ergo you didn’t plan to die... and if anyone could manage to survive that, you could,” he says. It’s a conscious echo, one that hurts them both.

 

 

 

Sherlock swallows the question about what he’s done to ever deserve John’s faith. It’s not his turn, and he doesn’t want to prompt John’s realization that the right answer is ‘nothing’. He absolutely doesn’t want to lose it.

 

 

 

“Why didn’t you let me know?” the doctor wonders quietly. He consciously restrains the anger and hurt. Comprehending what happened, if not how, had allowed him to hold on. Because, if he was at fault (he must have been, because Sherlock _left_ ), at least he wasn’t guilty of overlooking Sherlock’s depression or, worse, of tipping him into that. Still, having to deal with the people (like Mary) who clearly – thank God, not often vocally – thought he was stuck in denial (and likely crazy) had been hard. No matter how often he bottled them up, the doubts that he was wrong and they were right always returned. Bless God for Mrs. Hudson who wanted to believe (if nothing else), one of the few who did not invite John to ‘wake up and face reality’. Ever. Now he had proof he was right all this time. The proof was breathing in front of him. Pity it also proved that Sherlock had not trusted him with that truth.

 

 

 

“You lied about Irene,” Sherlock counters. John’s mouth opens, but before he can either yell ‘so now it’s _my_ fault?’ or ask how Sherlock knows that (less likely) the detective hurries to explain, “I told you I wasn’t sure about what would happen. One of Moriarty’s many associates could have killed me, for all I knew. Your attempt to spare my supposed feelings about her was ample evidence that faking one's death, and dying in short order, is not good. Keeping you in the dark seemed the sensible choice. Add that I wasn’t sure you’d stay here and be safe, no matter what I ordered, reasoned or cajoled, I really had no other option. I wanted to tell you, John. If it means anything.”

 

 

 

Which it didn’t, of course, or shouldn’t because he still left John, hurt John. John has always been unpredictable about matters of sentiment though. Sherlock wants his forgiveness more than he’s ever wanted anything. He’s being honest, too – he very nearly took a page from Mycroft’s book and kidnapped John at his funeral, before logic snapped him out of temptation.

 

 

 

“It means something, not much, but I still appreciate it,” the doctor answers sincerely. There’s an uneasy silence, then he asks, “You’re out of questions, then?”

 

 

 

Sherlock’s head shakes in denial. He thought he just used his turn in their question relay, but apparently John’s being overly kind and not counting what’s not worded like a question. Still, he might be angry if Sherlock exploits this benevolence blatantly. “What did Molly say?” If John wanted confirmation of his death, he’d have gone to her, surely? She was supposed to have done the post-mortem. She is a fellow medical practitioner (if with quieter patients), she’s easily bullied into complying (Sherlock would know). And John admitted he never had ‘outright’ confirmation. Molly must have let something slip – with John, at least. Sherlock trusts her enough to believe she'd be very careful to protect his secret from others.

 

 

 

John answers Sherlock’s question by imitating Molly’s voice, rather well actually. ‘Of course he’s dead, John!...Why, why would you suspect, otherwise?’ John explains his deductions. “With anyone else, I’d have thought the catch in her voice meant she wanted me to be right, wanted to be convinced that you were still alive. But she was the only one who could never have any doubts; the one who had the most concrete proof imaginable of your fate. As you’ve taught me in the past, details are important. I wondered why she didn’t say something like ‘how can you think such?’ So, I surmised that you were still alive. I figured that Molly was asking, in her own subtle way, if you’d told me your secret.”

 

 

 

John smiled as he finished explaining. “Oh...I will definitely be doing all future autopsies you might require, by the way.”

 

 

 

Again, the detective is surprised. Of all the resolutions John's deduction might have prompted, this is unexpected...and a bit flattering, in a slightly morbid way – not that he minds. Still, “You're not a pathologist,” he can't help but remark. Would John even be allowed?

 

 

 

John growls back, “Try to stop me and see if you can. I have medical knowledge, Sherlock. After that bloody stunt on Bart’s roof, I’m dissecting you myself. Otherwise the doubt will haunt me forever, and I really don't fancy that.”

 

 

 

Sherlock will probably be insufferably smug about his admission, but right now the doctor doesn’t care. He’s been subdued far too long. He doesn’t think twice about giving Sherlock an honest piece of his mind.

 

 

 

It’s John’s turn though now. He swallows the ‘did you miss me?’ question that was on the tip of his tongue. Sherlock has already admitted that he’s ‘precious’. He’s not sure if he could handle it if Sherlock doesn’t admit to missing him. If he really didn’t miss him, he doesn’t want to know. He doesn’t want to because he missed Sherlock to death, almost literally, and continued to miss him even when he persuaded himself that the bloody git was still alive and just running around in secret after his charade. When he decided it was high time to stop grieving (not for a living man) and start living again. Starting to date again too (hence Mary), because his friend would be back – hopefully sooner than later – and scare anyone away and John might as well get laid till he could. Right about everything but the sooner, wasn't he?

 

 

 

Instead, John hurries to inquire, “Will you stay here?”

 

 

 

“It depends.” Such a noncommittal evasive answer from the detective makes John fight the sudden urge to find anything – a belt, a rope (Sherlock had a bloody harpoon, there must be a coil of rope somewhere, surely?) – to tie him up and ensure his friend won’t leave. And although it’s technically Sherlock’s turn now, John refuses to accept such an elusive answer. So he queries sharply, “Depends on what?”

 

 

 

“On what you mean as here. If it’s England, or even London, I’d say a definite, yes. If here is the flat, again, it depends,” Sherlock answers.

 

 

 

“I know you hate to repeat yourself but it looks like you’re asking me to reiterate things again,” the doctor remarks with a half-smile. He’ll have a clear answer if it’s the last thing he does. “What does it depend on whether you will stay here, as in the flat?”

 

 

 

“On you, John. Obviously.” Sherlock glances down. “I clearly renounced any claim to this place when I... _left_ , so I need your permission to stay. I’m not going to break into your flat, or your life.” _No matter how much I might want to_ , fills Sherlock’s mind as he answers John’s question.

 

 

 

“You’re crazier than I thought if you imagine that I’d let you…” John begins. Sherlock fights the instinct to curl up against the words. He tries to force himself to get up and leave, instead. He can’t stay – he wasn’t prepared to face a knowing John, so he couldn't convince the doctor to allow him to stay. He can’t refuse John though. His anguish almost makes him deaf to the words his friend continues to utter. “…that I’d let you leave my line of sight. I'm not trusting you not to disappear anymore, so I'll have you where I can see you, thank you very much,” John concludes.

 

 

 

 _Wait, what?_ Sherlock’s mind does a double take. _What did John just say?!_

 

 

 

“I’m allowed to remain here? Here, as in this flat? Really?” A shadow of disbelief quivers in Sherlock’s voice.

 

 

 

“You have to; there’s a difference,” John points out with a grin. He keeps quiet then, because after he stretched his turn so unreasonably, Sherlock deserves undeniably more than one reassurance (nothing about what happened has been fair in the slightest, to either of them, perhaps that’s why the doctor is obsessed with the idea now).

 

 

 

But the detective keeps quiet and John is mentally debating about letting him know it’s his turn to ask the next question when he notices his friend’s breathe evening out and eyelids drooping. John’s observed Sherlock crash post-case, and this definitely qualifies as post-case (and a gruelling, drawn out case at that). Now that the suspense of waiting for John’s permission to stay has been relieved, he is out like a light. John finds it incredibly endearing. He has the urge to move him to the sofa (he thinks he can manage that without waking him – the bed, not so likely) to make his friend more comfortable.

 

 

 

In the end he decides not to; he’s done with considering Sherlock’s comfort top priority. He’s learned a lot now, yes, and he can understand Sherlock’s motives – which, really, John summed up a lifetime ago (‘friends protect people’) – but the past grief, self-doubt (‘not dead? Self-delusion at its finest, John’) and fears (he _discarded_ me; in the most melodramatic way possible) still make him decide a few neck cricks when he wakes up might be more than well deserved by the detective. Not to mention, he just resolved ( _promised?_ ) to keep Sherlock where he can see him at all times. So John sleeps on the sofa. He refuses to go up to his room and risk waking up to this Return being (yet another) dream, thank you very much.

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A.N. As always, nothing you recognize is mine. And as always, betaed by the wonderful Ennui Enigma, who dares to walk the maze of my mind and straightens it up.

 

 

 

 

John wakes up to a crick on his neck and Sherlock’s glaze fixed on him with all the frightening intensity he remembers so well. The detective is looking at him as if John is the first fountain of water he came across after crawling out of the desert. When he’s caught, though, his eyes shift away and he leaps out of the armchair.

 

 

 

“Can I go take a shower, John?” he queries.

 

 

 

“Of course,” the doctor replies, surprised at Sherlock’s newfound need for his flatmate’s permission.

 

 

 

“Line of sight, John,” the brunet states with a sigh. Christ, but he took John’s words seriously, didn’t he?

 

 

 

“I will want to keep an eye on you, but Sherlock, this is not Guantanamo! You don’t need to ask for bathroom breaks, at least as long as…”

 

 

 

“I keep it short?” the detective concludes.

 

 

 

“As long as you don’t disappoint me by running away through the bathroom window. I won’t begrudge you a good soak, Sherlock,” John corrects, with a sigh of his own.

 

 

 

‘ _Why would I want to_?’ The detective thinks, but he’ll get to that later. For now, he wants to shower. He leaves the bathroom door open (just in case John changes his opinion about that ‘line of sight’ matter and decides to come in to check on him) and hums happily to himself during his ablutions. The sound will hopefully help confirm to John that yes, he deduced right, and yes, Sherlock is back. Sherlock does indulge in a long, relaxing soak (he’s home again, and John said he could) and comes out of the bathroom to the heavenly smell of a full English breakfast.

 

 

 

John knows he should still be angry (because Sherlock left him without a word; because he decided protecting John was a better idea than bringing him as backup when John’s the bloody soldier out of the two of them) but all he can feel that morning is the sharp relief that, yes, he wasn’t mad, and yes, he read clues correctly, and yes (God yes!) Sherlock is ok and home and the world isn’t quiet anymore. He suspects he would have committed the worst error possible yesterday night without Sherlock’s reappearance – giving Mary the ring (he’ll have to get rid of it, won’t he?) – for the sake of the white noise she provided. TV just didn’t cut it.

 

 

 

He needs to get busy before the excessive joy rips through him (it might be physically impossible, but it feels quite probable now) so he starts cooking. When his friend appears (in a towel) at the kitchen’s entrance, he anticipates him, “You’ve stopped me from getting dinner yesterday, as usual, and I don’t even want to know when was the last time you ate. We are eating now, Sherlock, hopefully all of this, and that’s it.”

 

 

 

Sherlock is only too happy that John does not require information on his last meal. He’s not sure why it always irked John when he didn’t know. The very last thing he wants now it to irritate his friend when he’s clearly in a good mood. So he just nods. His transport requires sustenance, after all. Sherlock is always more likely to indulge after a case, and now – with the food evidence that John still cares about him (undeservedly; foolishly too) – he suddenly realizes exactly how famished he is.

 

 

 

They eat quietly, eyes never leaving each other. The doctor needs the reassurance (and he’s warned Sherlock already, so it’s fair); the detective is trying to deduce if this means they can really go back to routine, if John has understood, accepted and forgiven his deception just like that. Well, John understood the deception all by himself (and Sherlock will later desperately try to delete exactly why), but even so he should surely be angrier, shouldn’t he? He should want to punish Sherlock, not cook for him. What will happen when John realizes this?

 

 

 

The sleuth’s mobile thrills with a text alert when breakfast is just about done. The impeccable timing plus Sherlock’s grimace in reading it can mean only one thing.

 

 

 

“Mycroft?” John asks.

 

 

 

“Yes.”

 

 

 

“Tell him anything short of world war III can wait. Maybe even that,” the doctor quips.

 

 

 

“He knows better than to collect right now. Says he’s concerned – he’s just being nosy,” Sherlock replies, fingers flying on the keys and a wide grin at John’s suggestion.

 

 

 

“I went to him first for confirmation, you know? Not Molly. I’m sure he kept your charade just because he didn’t want to admit I’d figured out your scheme. Probably ashamed he’d given me a few additional clues,” John reveals.

 

 

 

“Do tell, John,” Sherlock prompts. Surprised (yet again) by John’s choices (did he really think he could make _Mycroft_ of all people spit a secret?) and all too gleeful to know his older brother slipped up (Molly doing so is kind of expected, but Mycroft?!) .

 

 

 

“I called him out on you being alive. He said, and I quote, that he was ‘concerned because I was bringing denial to an unprecedented, almost artistic level’ and that ‘he prayed my sanity would not give in, as that would be painful to deal with’. I replied he was lucky I knew you were alive or his choice of words would have earned him a punch.”

 

 

 

“I’m almost sorry you figured that out now,” the detective comments with a smirk.

 

 

 

“If you want me to attack someone you only have to say so, but careful where you tread, Sherlock. That deduction really saved my sanity…and life…and pretty much everything,” John chides sadly. He doesn’t even know why he says it. He doesn’t want to dwell on his dark days, and his friend has said no more – no worse – than he did lots of times in the past. John still can’t let that nightmarish hypothesis go unremarked.

 

 

 

Sherlock looks suddenly quite ill, and white as a sheet. His mouth opens, and John worries for a second everything might come back up, but it doesn’t happen. Instead “I’m sorry,” leaves his lips, plaintive and so quick it feels almost unbidden.

 

 

 

The doctor can’t say, “It’s fine,” – no point lying to Sherlock, and being stuck in grief is a haunting prospect for him – but he doesn’t want to let silence hang over them or ignore it either. So he tries to get their good mood back, quipping, “Sherlock? I’m pretty sure that was a sign of impending Apocalypse just now. Do we need to build a fallout shelter?”

 

 

 

Sherlock shakes his head, and they end up laughing. When they can breathe normally again, the detective demands, “Really, which clues did Mycroft give?”. Too juicy a failure from his omnipotent brother to let it go. Obviously.

 

 

 

“He told me he would be grateful if I could allow your things to stay. That if I couldn’t abide it, he would help me find…or even provide another satisfactory place, but 221B had to remain unchanged. It was so evident everything was just waiting for you to come back and Mycroft found removing it all and then bringing it back too much of an hassle. So you had to be alive, see?”

 

 

 

“Mycroft’s laziness will be his downfall sooner or later,” Sherlock agrees with a smirk “but surely he must have offered some sort of excuse for such an extravagant request?”

 

 

 

“Actually, he didn’t. He didn’t justify himself at all, which was brilliant of him. Left me to wonder if it was the heartbroken brother making a shrine (and honestly, I don’t think he’d want to preserve forever this stage of your relationship) or the British government which still needed to figure out where you’d hidden something you pilfered and wanting access to conduct more searches, which he couldn’t reasonably do if he took your things away and let it become my house exclusively, or something else entirely. I went with the something else.”

 

 

 

“I see,” the detective replies. When John inadvertently called Mycroft brilliant, a flash of annoyance went through him. Sherlock automatically reacts by going to search for his violin. John can very well follow him if he wants to keep Sherlock in his sight. Of course, he doesn't expect to be able to play. Not after three years the instrument was unattended. Still, even caring for it, tuning it, will soothe him. The sleuth finds it where he left it the last time (he's sure; he never got around to deleting the details of these last few days home even if it would have been convenient). But...

 

 

 

His gasp makes John – who's followed, of course he has – ask nervously, “It isn't ruined, is it?” Pointedly not looking at his friend for the first time.

 

 

 

“It's perfect, John. How?” It's not just dust-free. It's clearly been cared for; Sherlock could play it now.

 

 

 

“I asked how, obviously. I couldn't stand the idea of it...rotting.” 'Too' goes unsaid. Sherlock doesn't point out that wood, which has survived centuries is unlikely to start rotting now. “When I did, the man I showed it to actually fainted. And then promptly tried to convince me to sell it. Really, Sherlock, none of our neighbours would believe it's a Strad after they heard you play it when Mycroft's around,” John reveals with a chuckle. He doesn't need to say such an offer hadn't been tempting. And not because Sherlock died intestate and consequently, the violin was legally Mycroft's (or perhaps Mummy's?).

 

 

 

“So let's show them,” the detective says, and the doctor knows he's in for a treat.

 

 

 

“Wait!” he urges, fishing out a handheld recorder used in more than one investigation. “Now start.”

 

 

 

“You don't really need that,” Sherlock remarks (probably just to be contrary) “I'll be around to play whenever you want.”

 

 

 

“No you won't. Or better said, I won't be,” John replies noncommittally. The sleuth, whose focus was inwards – that's how he gets the best inspiration after all – turns brusquely towards his friend, alarm evident. What's that supposed to mean?

 

 

 

“Oh, not anytime soon, but – it's good to have a goal, you know. I'd like to think we'll get back to normal. That I'll be able to go alone to a conference somewhere without getting separation anxiety. And honestly I don't see why I should be deprived of your fantastic playing just because you won't be around. Not in this age,” the doctor explains with a grin. He should be ashamed over scaring Sherlock, but it is reassuring to know neither of them can bear the mere idea of separation right now. It feels less...one-sided.

 

 

 

“Then I'll give you something worth recording,” Sherlock promises. And he does, oh he does. The first few minutes he plays a tune John knows, and likes – very much so – but can't name for the life of him. After, he starts improvising – composing – and John can only regret he didn't use a camcorder instead because Sherlock is a sight to behold. Well, he usually is anyway, but now...his edges are softened somehow, weird as it sounds. And his music...there's his very soul. He's weaving together wistfulness and overwhelming, almost consuming happiness. John is the lucky witness, and he resonates with the song. They're decidedly less different than the doctor had feared they would be. In truth, for all that Sherlock's piece is wordless, the next time he'll hear Killing me softly on the radio he is irresistibly reminded of this moment in time.

 

 

 

Some things never change. First, the detective's formerly much doubted heart is shining through the violin. Second, apparently, is the beloved instrument's function as a thinking aid, because Sherlock emerges from his creative half-trance with a resolution. The last note just stopped echoing when he says, “John, I know you didn't ask it of me, but still...I would like to make amends. To you. Even if I had no choice, or because I had no choice, I'm not sure, anyway...there.” It is a bit garbled, not up to his usual par, but he has really no par in this. No history of it. So his ineptitude can easily be forgiven. Probably.

 

 

 

“Amends? Do you even know how to, Sherlock?” John parrots, one eyebrow rising. Sherlock has never apologized. And now he wants to say sorry and let it all be forgiven and forgotten...or something like that. John has already forgiven, he was – still is – too elated not to forgive Sherlock for the simple fact that he's alive and has performed this miracle for John. Nonetheless, the doctor isn't sure he can forget now. He isn't sure he'll ever be able to forget, even if he has hopes.

 

 

 

“Well...” Sherlock starts, hesitant. Hesitant is another thing Sherlock never was, but it just confirms John's conviction. Sherlock has no idea what he's doing.

 

 

 

“I suppose we have three options,” he continues, though.“Either I try by myself, which will probably cause a few awkward situations at least...”

 

 

 

Of course. God only knows what Sherlock thinks is an adequate show of contriteness. The Baskerville situation was pitiful enough. And that wasn't even apologizing. Not officially. John would probably be hard pressed not to hit him or burst into laughs or both.

 

 

 

“Or I could ask Mycroft. He's the socially apt one, and if he can stop international conflicts he should know what I have to do. On second thought, he probably uses blackmail...” Sherlock muses, unable to hide a grimace at the prospect of asking his brother's help.

 

 

 

“Or you could just tell me what you would find acceptable.”

 

 

 

It is absurd, and yet so normal – their brand of normal – that it leaves John not knowing how he feels. Of course Sherlock would ask John how to behave, especially for something so out of his usual depth as apologizing. The fact that he needs to apologize to John, in the first place, apparently is an inconsequential variable.

 

 

 

“Would you really follow Mycroft's advice...and ask for it in the first place?” Impossible things are happening one after another, and the doctor has to confirm it. He can't help himself.

 

 

 

“I don't say things I don't mean, John,” Sherlock replies. That rule has one very pointed exception, but that was not of his own free will, so it doesn't count. He still looks dejected, while whipping out his mobile phone.

 

 

 

“Stop.”

 

 

 

Sherlock raises perplexed eyes at him.

 

 

 

“That was a rhetorical question. Your brother never really knew how to deal with me anyway.” John grins. His friend copies him.

 

 

 

“I'll ponder over this...amends matter,” the doctor promises. “I trust you'll be able to entertain yourself? Preferably without shooting anything?”

 

 

 

Sherlock doesn't quip about the activity being likely to overstrain him. He flops on the sofa and answers, “I have to renovate the Mind Palace, so I'll be quiet.” He really needs to reorganize the place; it's been a long time since he had leisure and safety enough to indulge in more than the most cursory deleting of useless details.

 

 

 

It takes John awhile to snap out of contemplation and start considering what he has to; but he missed this exact scene so hard and so long that he can't help staring at it.

 

 

 

Surprisingly – or not – John's the first to come out of meditation, even when he thought amends would be impossible. Perhaps they are; but he knows what he needs from Sherlock, and this is the occasion to ask for it. So he will. He writes something down and then waits for his friend to re-emerge, resuming his unabashed survey. He warned Sherlock about it yesterday after all.

 

 

 

“So?” the detective drawls when he's back to reality (sooner than John expected him to, actually).

 

 

 

“I won't make things easy for you Sherlock, I'm afraid. You did say amends, and I have a few conditions.” A half-smile lightens his words. “First and foremost: not now perhaps, and I'm pretty sure one sitting won't be enough, but you're going to tell me every single thing you haven't deleted about your...time away. Soon.” Secrets and deceits almost destroyed them, and John can't abide them anymore. Anyway, Sherlock is sure to have acquired a whole new set of triggers, and he will undoubtedly blunder into them without proper knowledge. He'd really rather not. He almost expects a protest, but no reaction comes from the detective.

 

 

 

“Second,” he continues, counting on his fingers. “If you lie to me, for whatever reason, no matter how necessary or white or trivial the lie is, you will own up before the day is gone.”

 

 

 

“But John...” Sherlock objects plaintively. He hates lies, but he knows how useful they are, and he wants to believe his friend will follow him on cases again. Cases might need Sherlock to hold a front. Even towards John.

 

 

 

“If you can't, because we're under surveillance or some other reason – not just because you don't want to, mind you – you'll bring up Dr. Who in conversation. And tell me first chance you get,” the doctor states firmly.

 

 

 

“John, you're brilliant!” Sherlock exclaims, enthusiastic and clearly honest. He should have known John would understand. His friend would never do anything that could hinder the Work, and he has helped Sherlock enough to consider every eventuality and provide accordingly. Dr. Who. Dull, nothing someone would think twice about if he overheard. But _the past can be rewritten_ – one of the show's lynchpin – is the perfect clue for 'not everything that happened is quite completely true'.

 

 

 

The praise takes John aback. This glint in Sherlock's eyes usually requires multiple dead bodies. The last time he'd heard something similar in regard to himself, they were at Baskerville, and it was an extremely awkward tentative to apologize. Or con him. Or both. Sherlock is trying to apologize now, but the awkwardness and the heavy atmosphere are absent. He's not making himself say it, and John has no idea how to react. So he doesn't. At all. After what he's said, he bloody hell hopes the con angle of that time can be discounted.

 

 

 

“Third,” he simply adds, taking three slips of paper where he'd written STOP in big, bright red capitals. “When I give you one of these you will. Stop, I mean. I don't care if we're on a case or your experiment will confirm someone's alibi or anything else. There's only three anyway – one for each year – so you know I won't use them lightly. And that's all.”

 

 

 

“That's not acceptable, John,” the sleuth objects immediately. The doctor sighs wearily. It was a compromise – a good compromise, he'd thought – but of course Sherlock wouldn't stand anyone putting the brakes on him. Especially after being used to working alone for so long.

 

 

 

“These are supposed to be for when I'm stupid enough to trigger you, right?” Sherlock queries. Because he will, they both know he will, jumping between rooftops on a chase or something equally as idiotic. “You can't put a limit to it. Who's to say I won't do it a fourth time?” Ok, that was so not what John was expecting. “We could just agree that I'll stop when you tell me, without this byzantine system.”

 

 

 

“We both know you won't, Sherlock. I've already obtained one miracle, I'm not about to ask for the impossible – again,” the doctor quips with a grin.

 

 

 

“You're right, I won't.” Sherlock grins back. “So we should agree on a codeword. If you say stop, I'll know you'd like me to stop. If you say it, you need me to stop. And I will, John. I promise. So, word?”

 

 

 

“Blanford?” John offers hesitantly.

 

 

 

“It's a name. It might be relevant to the case,” the detective counters immediately. He'd explained it when they created Vatican Cameos. He expects another suggestion. He doesn't expect John opening Google before deciding on, “Vulpes cana.”

 

 

 

“Acceptable,” Sherlock agrees, while looking over John's shoulder. Vulpes cana. Blanford's fox.

 

 

 

“I saw one in Afghanistan once. She was beautiful,” John volunteers.

 

 

 

Sherlock can't help being flattered. Even for a 'stop you bloody IDIOT!' codeword his friend picks something whose mental associations are positive.

 

 

 

“I expect you to adhere to these conditions, Sherlock. Since it was your idea in the first place,” John reminds him sternly.

 

 

 

“I will,” he promises. He might not be enthusiastic about having to give a full report, but John won't reject him for what he's done to bad people. Not after he's forgiven the much, much worse sin Sherlock committed against him. And John's clever, and puts code words in place to help them get alongbetter in the long run. They'll be abnormal – they never appreciated normal much anyway – but fine. Someday.

 


End file.
